Pocket of poverty the new Shanghai has left behind

Demolition teams … residents watch as streets that have sometimes been home to generations of families make way for highrise apartments.

SHANGHAI: In little over a week, most of the homes were reduced to rubble.

Rubber handled sledgehammers made short work of the crumbling grid of workers' cottages, built in the 1930s. These are now wedged between modern high-rise apartments and Shanghai's busiest elevated arterial road. The few remaining structures, previously linked by a maze of narrow lanes, are marked for destruction with the single red spray-painted Mandarin character ''dismantle''.

At the beginning of the 1990s, most of Shanghai's residents lived in such penghuqu (basic houses).

According to Shanghai's Fudan University, the number of these homes shrank 60 per cent from 2000 to 2008 while the number of luxury villas rose more than 10 times this figure. Simultaneously, some of the world's tallest skyscrapers rose above the city's skyline, signalling its return as an economic powerhouse.

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''Don't shoot video,'' a man in his 60s warns. ''If you do, the police will come. You're showing the worst part of China.''

This tiny pocket of poverty is a snapshot of a life that modern Shanghai has largely left behind. Gentrification has surged over this corner of Changning on the edge of the fashionable former French Concession. Yet while nightsoil collectors are a distant memory, some of the city's poorest residents still carry chamber pots to public toilets.

Most residents have left with the promise of new apartments next year on the city's outskirts. While these are built, they must fend for themselves in Shanghai's rental market. Householders are awarded a monthly stipend of 1500 yuan (about $231) for a single room and 500 yuan for additional rooms. This should be enough for them to scrape by in cramped conditions on Shanghai's fringe. However, a life in the area where many families have lived for generations has been taken away.

Most homes still standing are shells with gutted interiors. Clues to the lives of former residents linger: frayed ''Hello Kitty'' posters, a montage of Chinese starlets cut from gossip magazines, a map of the United States. Only a handful of residents remain, hoping for a better deal. Regardless of whether their demands are met, they have been ordered to vacate by the end of the month or face fines.

Forced demolitions and land seizures continue to be one of China's most highly charged issues. There are many documented cases of violent clashes between evicted residents and local officials. Many lucrative real estate developments have left former residents destitute. ''I've lived here since 1947,'' a man in his 60s who declined to be named said. ''They changed the rules this year and we didn't know.''

Previously, residents were compensated for each individual in a household. But the man said the new guidelines offered a flat rate for each room. To his dismay, new rules defined kitchens and bathrooms as ''public spaces'' that are not covered by compensation.

The official line is that their condemned homes are to make way for a road and a public park. One can forgive feelings of scepticism. Apartment space in neighbouring high-rise compounds sells for about 28,000 yuan per square metre.

Land transfer fees in Shanghai are a huge source of government revenue. According to a report in the China Daily, this generated more than $14 billion in 2009 while more than one square kilometre of ''relocation projects'' were completed.

Outrage at forced demolition has led to a number of high profile incidents in China. In May a woman whose home in the southern province of Yunnan was slated for demolition killed herself and two local officials with a suicide bomb. Fourteen bystanders were injured. Self-immolation and suicide are frequent occurrences.

While some evictees join hundreds of thousands of ''petitioners'' who travel to Beijing in the hope of having their case reviewed at the centre of state power, an enraged Shanghai taxi driver has taken an unusual approach to promoting his grievances. Stuck to the clear security barricade inside his vehicle are handmade signs, which he describes as ''Shanghai taxi facebook'' (Facebook and Twitter are blocked in China).

In Chinese and English, the driver brands his government ''corrupt'' and developers ''evil'', accusing both of robbing him and his neighbour of their homes. He claims that enforced eviction drove his neighbour to suicide. The montage features what he says is a a picture of his neighbour hanging from her ceiling.

Back at the mostly demolished lane in Changning, the remaining residents are resigned to leaving their homes.

Zhang Yong Qang, 62, will leave the two 15 sq m rooms he shares with his sister and his brother-in-law, but his two dogs, strays given to him by his son, will stay. ''If other people come, they'll probably eat them, but what can I do?'' he asks. ''I can barely look after myself.''